Can I Come A Little Closer?
by Karma Sutra
Summary: America is sick and Russia comes for some post Cold War cuddles. Shameless fluff. I think.


"Fuuuuuuuuuuck," America moaned, tossing and turning in his already tangled bed sheets. He was sick. He was so damn sick. It started out as nothing more than a cold, but damn had it escalated fast. Damn damn damn damn.

He moaned again, this time incoherently, as pain racked his insides. This happened every time one of his major companies experienced a profit loss -The Great Depression had been hell- but this was more than a minor incident; this was 9 billion USD gone from seemingly thin air. Alfred would recover, he always did, but _damn_!

"Amerika, if you're going to make such lewd noises, I'd prefer to be the cause," a Russian accent cut through Alfred's groans; shutting him up quickly. He paused in his fitful thrashes and scrambled into a sitting position, glaring at the towering man that had suddenly appeared before him.

"What do you want, Ivan? Don't get any ideas, I could still totally kick your ass," he warned, grateful that his voice, unaffected by his ill state, was as heroic as ever. The last thing he needed to be around Russia was vulnerable.

"Nyet, nyet, Fredka. You misunderstand me. I simply came to check on you. JP Morgan made it to the front of BBC, da?"

"We both know your citizens only ever read RussiaToday, which, by the way, is totally and completely obsessed with me." Despite it being a Russian news organization, RT was filled with news about America almost constantly and it was never kind. Or true, as Alfred would vehemently claim.

"I'm a nation, not a citizen. I'm above censorship. England may be awful at most everything, but his news is perhaps the best."

"Get out of here, Russia."

"I don't think I will," the larger man murmured, sitting down on the edge of America's bed, the latter scooching as far away as physically possible.

"Come now, Fredka," Ivan coaxed, leaning closer. "We're well past the Cold War, aren't we? It was just a few years ago that we were friends even."

"If you're referring to the Bush-Putin bromance, then that was just a political maneuver. Besides, Bush is way out, dude. Obama is my boss now, and we don't even care about Russia anymore. Afghanistan is where its at." America's voice raised with confidence, even though Russia was inching ever closer. By the time Ivan responded, he was practically on top of Alfred.

"Amerika, don't you remember? We did that together. It was our tension and hatred that caused such a mess in Afghanistan. Surely your memory isn't so damaged by all of that fast food and commercialism."

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" America sneered. "I don't recognize anything but democracies."

"I am too," Ivan suddenly interrupted their banter, looking towards Alfred's clenched hands rather than the man himself. His voice had slipped into something else, something separate from the nation part of him. Somehow the moment held a new intimacy to it and America found himself coughing awkwardly.

"You are what, big guy?" he pushed. His light, unsure tone held such a contrast to the aggressive insults that had fell from those very same lips only moments before.

"You said that RussiaToday is obsessed with you. I am too."

The confession left behind it an eerie silence that hadn't been seen between the two since before the purchase of Alaska. Russia still refused to look Alfred in the face, although his shoulders were back and his eyes shone with a certain determination.

"Let me stay with you. You are sick. I'll take care of you." The low requests, different from his usually juvenile tone, startled America and left a shiver up his spine. If the previous statement hadn't knocked him off his guard, that last one certainly did.

"Uh... yeah, sure," the blond tugged weakly at the duvet to indicate that Ivan should crawl under. Sharing a bed with another nation unto itself wasn't strange or romantic; Alfred himself had remained curled up against France throughout his revolution, more out of childish fear than anything. Hell, he still sometimes slept in the same bed as Matthew or Kiku, but usually only after giving himself nightmares. No, sharing sheets wasn't uncommon at all. But somehow to do so with Russia felt so much different. As the larger man slid beneath Alfred's Superman sheets, America didn't feel the familial love he felt for Canada and their fathers, but nor did he feel the hatred, disgust, and slight sexual tension that had characterized his and Ivan's relationship for so long. Rather, he felt comfortable and comforted. He instinctively relaxed into the Russkiy's arms, tucking his head under the other's chin, sighing contentedly even as pain continued to rack his body. The movement must have been equally soothing to Russia, as he allowed his body to sag under the political and economic weight of his own troubles even as he wrapped his arms around the western nation's waist.

The two stayed like that, silently sharing the weight of their burdens.

"Ya know, they _do_ say Russians are great cuddlers," Alfred smiled against Ivan's clothed chest.

"Fredka; this moment, do not ruin it."


End file.
